A Lesson in Rage
by sneetchstar
Summary: Another one inspired by a conversation on Tumblr. Ichabod undoubtedly has some anger built up underneath that pompous, unflappable exterior. It's time for him to vent some of it. One-shot.


_Crack. Thump, thump._

Abbie determinedly follows the too-familiar sound, a sound she heard on another morning long ago, yet not long enough ago.

_Crack. Thump, thump._

"Crane," she calls his name, and the annoyance that had been building inside her all morning over his failure to answer the five attempts she made to reach him via his phone melts away. Her steps slow.

_Crack. Thump, thump._

Crane is quickly and methodically setting fat logs onto a large stump, raising his hatchet, and plunging it into the wood, splitting the logs into smaller pieces.

_Crack. Thump, thump._

He doesn't retrieve the smaller pieces, letting them fall where they may while he turns and selects another log.

From the looks of things, he's been at it a while.

"Crane," Abbie repeats his name. She says it softer this time, and his eyes flick to hers for just a moment. Then, he raises the hatchet again and drives it downward.

Drives it downward with terrifying force.

Abbie has never seen him like this. He's more powerful than she would have thought given his wiry frame, and she wonders how much adrenaline is coursing through his body. It frightens her a little, but she continues forward towards her partner.

"Leave me, Lieutenant." He picks up another log and sets it on the stump.

_Crack. Thump, thump._

"Crane. Stop this," Abbie softly says, persistently, slowly walking towards him.

He pauses, his hand out, fingers spread, as he reaches for a log. "Go," he says, his voice stronger.

"You shouldn't be alone," she presses, but stops walking.

He sets the log on the stump with so much force that a few loose shards of bark fall from it. "Leave me! _I do not want you here!_" he yells, his bright, blue eyes boring into her for three very long seconds before they return to his target.

The only thing stopping Abbie's immediate impulse to lash out in return is the amount of pain she sees in her partner's eyes. She knows his anger is not with her.

He raises his hatchet to drive it downward into the log, pauses, and drops his arms to his sides. The hatchet is clutched in his hand as he stands, still as a statue, surrounded by a haphazard sea of split logs, his eyes downcast. She can see his hands are raw. His knuckles are white; he is gripping the handle so tightly. He won't look at her. As she takes another step closer, she notices he isn't exactly as still as she thought. "Are you cold?"

"No." He hears her take another step, and speaks again. "_Don't_. Please. I implore you. Leave," he repeats, his voice quiet and tremulous.

"I am not leaving you alone like this," she answers, keeping her tone soft, but firm. She stops two feet away from the edge of the strewn logs.

He looks down. The hatchet slips from his grasp, dropping at his feet. Something seems to snap into focus in his head, and he speaks. "I am so... filled... with anger, Abbie," he admits. His voice is low and measured. She can tell he is struggling to maintain control. She's been wondering when this time was going to come. She saw a glimpse of it months ago at Fredericks Manor, when he lifted a similar hatchet from the back of her car and quietly, but insistently bade her not to follow him.

"You have every right to be," Abbie says. She doesn't move any closer. She wants to; wants to reach out and touch his shoulder, even put her arms around him to offer some comfort, but has a distinct impression those kinds of efforts would neither be accepted nor appreciated at present. "Everything you've learned since you woke up in this century has been..."

"Horrible," he supplies. "The end of days threatening. The life I knew... gone. My son – I _have_ a son! – evil. My wife... a witch..." His voice breaks and his body shudders, momentarily overcome. He takes a deep breath and continues, his voice like ice. "This world, this time, is so... coarse and loud. People behave as though they deserve to be handed things on a silver platter simply because they grace this land's presence with their meager existences... Selfish. Rude. Judgmental. There is so little honor, so little compassion, so little..." One hand lifts, fingers flexing open and closed, grasping for words that aren't there, logic that has eluded him.

"Makes you wonder why we're working to save it, hey?" Abbie asks. These thoughts have plagued her as well, in the middle of the night when sleep evades her.

He finally looks at her. His eyes are glassy and red, and she's never seen such angry fire behind them before now. _This is much worse than Fredericks Manor. _"You need to let this anger out, Crane," she says.

"I fear... if I do... there will be dire consequences," he quietly says, his eyes slowly tracking upward until they meet hers. A shadow crosses his face and his eyes briefly look haunted. Abbie knows he is thinking of whatever it was he experienced alone in the Manor. He's never spoken of it; all she knows is that it must have been bad. _Very_ bad.

Abbie also knows he means he doesn't want to explode at_ her_. She knows she would be an easy target for him, being so close. The knowledge that he is aware of this and does not wish for it to happen brings tears to the backs of her eyes, but she squares her shoulders. _You need to be the strong one right now._ She rapidly blinks a few times. "There won't be. We just need to find the right outlet." She looks around at all the split logs. "Looks like you've already taught these logs a lesson in rage..."

"Yes. That... is what I was endeavoring to do," he answers.

"Yes, well... is it working?"

"No."

"Then, we need to find another outlet," she says, her resolve growing stronger. "What do you want to do? Yell? Scream? Go ahead, I'm not stopping you. Break stuff? I can find stuff for you to break. Hit something? I can help you with that. You want to shoot something? I can arrange that." Her voice builds as she speaks, growing louder, more urgent. "You're out in the middle of nowhere, Crane, and I am a police officer. You need to vent this anger, man, so _vent_ it already!"

He knocks the log from the stump with his hand in a fast, sweeping motion. "I can't!" he answers, his voice rising to match hers. Abbie jumps, but only slightly. "If I do…" he trails off, hands twitching at his sides.

"If you do, _what?_" she challenges. "Look. You _need_ this. Let me help you." She steps closer, within his reach, but he is not within hers. "You're _not_ going to hurt me, Crane," she adds, her voice quiet again.

His eyes snap to hers, surprised she is so easily able to read him, though he fully realizes he should not be.

"So," she evenly says, stepping closer still, "what'll it be, Crane? You gonna let your partner help you, or do you intend to chop down the whole damn forest?" She raises her chin and regards him seriously, but sympathetically.

He looks down at her, searching her eyes for answers. His large hands ball into tight fists clenched at his sides as he makes his decision. "I want... to _shoot_ something. Rather a lot."

"All right, Soldier," Abbie says with a decisive nod. "This was Corbin's place... I bet we can find something." She makes a mental note to get him a gun permit – now that he has ID – and take him to the gun range on a regular basis. But, for now, she goes questing through her former mentor's property. _Don't let me down, Corbin._

Crane doesn't follow as she walks away; instead choosing to gather the logs he had split, stacking them neatly, but forcefully.

A short time later, Abbie, moving like a whirlwind on a mission through the cabin and its property, has found several things: a small collection of glass beer bottles, an empty barrel, a lamp that Crane doesn't use (and Abbie thinks is really ugly), a few tattered throw pillows, and two pumpkins from the back of her truck she was planning to take home and set out as fall decorations.

He's sitting on the stump, facing the lake, when she returns to him. "Crane," she says, touching his shoulder this time. He stands and follows a short distance into the forest.

He decisively nods once when he sees the display. She's got the bottles sitting on the barrel. The pillows are hanging from tree branches, the lamp is on a large boulder and the pumpkins are on a tree stump.

"Here," she hands him her pistol. She also has a rifle slung over her shoulder. "I know you remember how to use it."

He nods, curling his long fingers around the handle.

"Do you want me to stay out here or go inside?" she carefully asks.

He stares down at the pistol in his hand, how the black surface shines in the autumn sunlight. He runs the fingers of his opposite hand over it, almost caressing it with his trembling fingers. "Stay," he quietly says. His shoulders sag and he closes his eyes. "Please." His voice wavers on this last word and when he looks up at her, there is still so much pain behind the anger in his eyes. Pain, doubt, and frustration. Hopelessness. And, sadness. So much sadness it nearly brings tears to her eyes again.

Abbie has seen that look on other faces in the past, and it never ends well. Her blood runs cold with the realization that, in this moment, she may be the only thing stopping Crane from turning that pistol towards himself.

"I'll be right here," she says, squeezing his elbow before stepping back. "I'm not going anywhere."

He moves forward and raises the pistol, holding it out at arms' length, his body turned to the side, his opposite hand behind his back. "No," he stops himself, then corrects his posture as Abbie once showed him. He hesitates.

"I put a call in to the station," she quietly informs. "Told them I was doing some target practice out here, in case they get calls reporting shots fired."

He nods once and fixes his eye, unblinking, on his first target, his face hardened and focused. He squeezes the trigger.

The first bottle explodes in a shower of glass.

xXx

Twenty minutes later, the bottles and lamp are nothing but shards, the barrel is splintered, the pillows are limp cases dangling from ropes, their stuffing on the ground, and the pumpkins have been reduced to grotesque piles of seeds and stringy orange guts.

Abbie watched the entire time, standing a short distance behind him. After about five shots, he began punctuating his shots with shouting. Screaming. Words, sometimes; other times, just anguished cries. He shoots with frightening speed and precision despite the tremors wracking his body for the first ten minutes. His accuracy with the pistol was unsettling. With the rifle, he was positively lethal, his eyes steely and cold, focusing on each new, bigger explosion caused by the larger caliber weapon. She doesn't even try to stop her tears now, allowing them to roll silently down her cheeks as she watches her partner, her dearest friend, unleash some of his rage on these objects.

Watching _him _to make sure he doesn't do anything rash. Or stupid.

She was fully aware that putting a loaded firearm into his hands was a... risky decision at best. _He could have killed himself. He could have killed us both._

_ He could have. But, he didn't._

Ammunition spent, targets obliterated, Crane lowers the rifle and Abbie releases a long breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. He says nothing for a long minute, breathing heavily.

Abbie wipes her face. She feels quite strung out and emotionally spent, as though she were experiencing her partner's anger and grief right along with him. "You okay?" she asks, not caring if he sees her swollen red eyes.

Crane's shoulders slump and he nods. "Getting there," he answers, his voice hoarse. Abbie nods, understanding. _It's not all going to go away at once._

He steps over to a nearby tree and leans against it, rifle dangling from his hand. She continues to watch him, waiting while his eyes slowly come back into focus and his breathing slows to normal. Waiting while _her_ breathing slows to normal. She notices for the first time that the forest is eerily quiet.

"Not everything has been horrible," he finally speaks. He slides down and sits on the ground, letting the rifle fall softly to the side. "Since I awoke in this era, I mean. There have been good things. Good people." He looks up at her, attempting a small smile. His face is red, his hair lank with sweat. His eyes are still troubled, but calmer.

Abbie walks over and sits beside him, leaning against the tree. "There is still some good in the world," she says.

"Miss Mills," he starts, "what I said before. About... how people are selfish and rude..."

"Don't worry about it," she says.

"I should like to say the words," he continues. "I did not mean to imply I felt that way about you, Abbie," he clarifies. "I fully recognize there are people in this time, like you... and Miss Jenny... Captain Irving and his family... even Sheriff Reyes... for whom the world is worth saving."

She feels his fingers close over hers, large and warm as they encapsulate her small, cold hand. "Thank you," she responds. He squeezes her hand, and she squeezes it back. Crane sighs deeply and lets his head fall back against the tree. Abbie starts to relax in the stillness of the moment. Suddenly, he speaks, breaking the silence.

"I... I think I would also like to strike something," he softly informs. "With my fists."

"Right now?"

"No."

She nods. "I'll take you to the gym in a few days. You can teach a heavy bag a thing or two about Colonial Era hand-to-hand combat."

"Sounds very... cathartic," he says.

"You don't know what a heavy bag is, do you?" she asks.

"No," he quietly admits.

She chuckles. "Come on," she says, tugging his hand.

"Where are we going?" he asks. "I do not need to immediately pummel this _heavy-bag_."

"We're not. We're going inside," she says, standing. "We need to even you out. Seriously."

"I beg your pardon," he protests, but he stands as well and begins following her to the cabin.

"You just released a bunch of rage, Crane. Now, you need to balance that," she explains.

"I do? How do I do that?" he asks, completely baffled.

"Have you ever heard of yoga?"


End file.
